


Asteraceae

by Bogglocity



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Flash Fic, Fluff, Modern AU, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 10:13:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20890430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bogglocity/pseuds/Bogglocity
Summary: An autumn night, a garden, and a brief reprieve from terrible things.





	Asteraceae

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ponderinfrustration](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/gifts).

> Written for littlelonghairedoutlaw/ponderinfrustration, who dared me to write Charoga dancing under the stars.

The late September night lilts more like early November, and Aretha Franklin croons tinny and thin from the speaker of Nadir’s phone.

It was a nightmare that drew Christine out into the garden, farther into where it stretches a little wild at the edges, pajamas doing little to hold back the birch-leaf teeth of the wet autumn air. She hadn’t wanted to wake him, the floorboards inside too tetchy for pacing, dew-heavy sedge quieter and at no risk of grating at his already too-few hours of sleep. But she had hardly made it to the seeding goldenrod when a band of yellow incandescent stretched over the lawn and disappeared again. Complaint of the creaky back porch, rustle of the grass, and turning saw him in the asper moonlight, brandishing soft smile, woolen cardigan, half-charged phone.

His hand is warm holding hers, his hand is solid on her hip. The corner of his lips trace the lyrics, soundless, into her cheek, his temple to her temple.

“Did I wake you?” she whispers.

“No.”

She knows it to be a lie but she won’t say as much until the morning comes, the same time she tells him what it was she dreamt—ghostly images, distorted emotions that will be easier to recount with the cushioning of a few hours between now and then. He won’t push, only brush his thumb over her knuckles during the silences while they sip their coffee.

For now, they sway, stars frost-crisp above them while they brush against the hip-high tangles of blue aster, scent of encroaching October and fading marguerites and the black pepper of his cologne weaving into her lungs when she rests her head in the crook of his neck and he into hers. Aretha, low and lovely, sings on.

**Author's Note:**

> The song I had in mind while writing was 'Skylark' by Aretha Franklin!


End file.
